


Return of the Lost and Found

by Fireway



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Spoilers for 8x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 14:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18812632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireway/pseuds/Fireway
Summary: My take on what happened after the credits rolled in 8x05. Gendry's POV.





	Return of the Lost and Found

Steel wasn’t singing anymore. That was all Gendry could think of, as he hit the glowing sword again and again, sweat running down his face. Gendry had travelled to King’s Landing with the Dragon Queen’s army. He had been supposed to go into the city as well, with the soldiers since he knew the streets, but had been pulled back on the last minute.

He didn’t know, if he should have been glad, though. From what he had heard, the Targaryen Queen had gone mad, as history was repeating itself and whenever Gendry looked out of the makeshift forge, all he could see was smoke and flames rising from the city. Of course, he should be happy he was alive, but a bigger part of him felt like maybe if Jon Snow hadn’t pulled people back last minute, he would be there; he’d get a fighter’s death and even a bigger part was thinking about if he’d run into Arya; Arya, who had disappeared into the night after rejecting his proposal, Arya who had gone on a suicide mission for some stupid reason, abandoned her family after just getting them back (he did not want to think about, was he her family or not, it made his heart ache.). But yes, maybe, just maybe, Gendry would have ran into Arya. Maybe they could have died together, or Gendry could’ve given his life for her – he would gladly do it.  He wanted closure – of course, her rejection was one on itself, but he still considered here choice to leave alone with the Hound absolute madness. He just wanted to ask her one last time, why, was he still not enough, even as just a friend like it had been before.

Before she had gotten those stupid, flirty smirks on her lips, before here gaze lingered on him just a little bit too long. Before, when she was just Arya, a rascal kid with fire in her veins and needle on her waist. He’d take that, or any Arya, over the Arya who never would come back to him.

 

As hours passed, Gendry felt a cold hand squeeze his stomach every time there were survivors coming from the city. He had moved from the forge as soon as he saw people come through the city gates, helping the overwhelming and scared smallfolk to get to safety where their wounds and burns could be treated. Gendry still was trying to do something useful, keep his hands busy, as he collected weapons and arrowheads left behind around the city gate, but more than that, he wanted to keep his eye on anyone coming through the gate.

He knew Arya wasn’t coming back to him, but he refused to believe she wouldn’t be coming back at all. He stared at the rubble and molten stone he could see in the main street, the charred bodies and collapsed buildings and he thought about Arya’s small frame, scarred and burned, crushed under a stone or a sword through her heart. It made his hands shake. His hands never shook – that was unacceptable in the forge, for one unsure hit on the anvil could cost you a good weapon or your hand.

 

Jon Snow walked through the gate even later, when most civilians had gotten out – he was accompanied by few northmen and Unsullied, supporting a limping woman as they made their way through the gate. Gendry looked up from his work, not even caring to hide his worry and anxiety, he jogged to Jon, who slumped down to sit on a stone, his face bloodied and hair made back with ash.

“Where’s Arya?” Gendry could hear himself say, but his words were a mush in his mouth, his throat closed. That was at least how he felt – yet Jon looking up to him had clearly understood the implications behind his question.

“She hasn’t come back? She … Maybe she hasn’t made it here yet. She wasn’t in the city.” Jon’s oblivious denial made Gendry’s blood boil. It wasn’t directly at Jon, or at anyone, other than maybe the cursed gods, that had made his and hers lives living hell, with mad queens and war after war.

Gendry didn’t say a word to Jon Snow, though. It wasn’t like Jon would have listened, either, as people ewer coming to him, asking him what to do, what happened, why it happened.

 

Gendry walked back to the forge, even if it was further away. His whole body felt hot, as red, flaming anger took control of his muscles. His anger could be felt through the forge, as he started to melt the swords, trying to fight what was lost. All the other blacksmiths had stopped working hours ago, yet some were still lingering in the forge.

“What’s that now, boy? You gone mad?” one of the blacksmiths asked him as he walked past Gendry, hitting the steel again and again. Gendry’s vision flashed red, as even the thing he was supposed to be so good at, felt like nothing, but a way to hit something, instead of someone. He didn’t bother to answer to the man passing him, either. He would’ve just gotten a hammer to his face, anyway. His arms hurt, and his shirt was stained with ash and sweat, but he didn’t let himself stop; maybe if he worked enough, his heart would give up, and people would blame madness and overwork instead of heartbreak.

 

Death didn’t come to him, though. Part of Gendry wanted to run to the city, that was not under active dragon fire anymore, maybe succumb to the smoke or flames. Maybe do something that could be called bravery, yet it was a form of escape. He was later glad he didn’t, as he was outside the forge, again, fist tightly around a sword pommel he had found, when he looked up as he heard another set of survivors.

No, survivor.

Gendry’s breath was caught in his throat, as his knees felt weak. There she was, the girl who ended Winter, the slayer of Nightking, the Springbringer, the girl named Arya Stark whom he loved.

It was almost a scene out of a dream; sick, twisted dream, but dream nevertheless. From the rubble and smoke emerged a bloodied, white horse and on it’s back, a girl who had walked through hell and survived. She was bleeding, and her face was covered in ash and her clothes were ripped and some parts even burned, but gods, Gendry had never seen anything so beautiful.

Gendry’s feet moved on their own, as he ran towards the horse, that was slowing down its gallop. Arya looked like she could hardly stay conscious, eyes staring ahead without seeing anything, until she felt the horse stop. Gendery was holding the mare’s reins, but his hands were already ready to catch her. Arya let out a relieved sigh, that almost sounded like the blacksmith bastards – no, lord’s – name, but Gendry thought he imagined it and either way, he didn’t have time to ask her as she slumped, almost if her body had been fighting all this way just to make sure she got out and now that she was in safety, it gave out. Gendry was quick to catch her, sliding her down gently from the horse’s bare back. She was so warm and small in his arms Gendry felt like she would break if he didn’t wrap his arms around her and protect her from everyone.

Gendry started heading towards the medic tent – his steps were as fast as he dared to go with Arya’s unconscious body on his arms. As he was making his way towards the tent, he heard Jon Snow shout his sister’s name. Gendry didn’t even stop, but still Jon was right beside him, his face twisted with worry.

“Is she --- Is she alive? I’ll take her.” Jon’s voice was emotional, raspy. It reminded Gendry of those boys on the street of steel who were fierce about protecting their younger siblings.

“Don’t touch her. Don’t you fucking touch her.” Gendry barked back immediately, making Jon’s hands drop. He didn’t exactly mean to be as harsh, but he didn’t have time for anyone else’s feelings in that moment; nobody went ahead of Arya’s wellbeing.

Jon didn’t seem to mind, luckily, and ran forward to open the tent door to Gendry, who bent down a bit to fit from the small opening. As soon as a soldier lying on a nearby bedroll saw the girl on Gendry’s arms, he jumped up and offered his place to her. Gendry didn’t say anything, just knelt to put Arya gently to the bed. His hands hadn’t been shaking after he first saw here, he realized while trying to make sure he wasn’t touching any of the wounds he could see. Gendry could Jon murmur a thank you to the soldier, but everything had become a blur. There was a young northern woman already there, with wet cloth, trying to see how bad the head injury was. Gendry felt sick when the blood and grime had been washed away from her face, as the wound was deep and still bleeding. The woman assured him, though, that it would be easy to stitch and then continued to look through her other injuries. She asked twice for Gendry to leave, but he didn’t say a word as he didn’t budge. He wouldn’t ever leave Arya again until she would ask him to do so.

 

As the night rolled around, Arya had been examined and Gendry could rest a bit easier now; she had no life-threatening injuries, at least after eth gaping wound on her head had been stitched. Arya’s right wrist was broken and her whole body was full of bruises and smaller wounds, but nothing time couldn’t heal. She was in and out of consciousness for a few hours, Gendry sitting next to her bedroll, refusing to leave – later Jon had came to check on her and told him to inform if anything changed or if she would wake up, and Gendry had taken that as an order to not leave her side, which he could use against any medics shooing him away.

When Arya’s grey eyes finally fluttered open, she looked confused. Arya’s brows furrowed as she was staring at the ceiling and then finally trying to sit up, but winced as she had used her broken wrist to get elevation to help her bruised and aching muscles. Gendry had expected that, and brought his hand gently behind Arya’s back, supporting her back with his larger hand. That made Arya look over her shoulder to Gendry, who was looing at her under his brows, almost apologetic and unsure of what to say.

“I made it?” Gendry heard Arya say, her voice raspy – as was his, he knew; everyone had been breathing in plenty of smoke, and it made everyone’s throat itch and hurt. “Or is this what becomes after?”

But still, Arya’s remark made a small, sheepish smile rise on Genedry’s lips. If Arya seeing Gendry to her seemed like a mark of afterlife, he couldn’t help but think, at least he made some difference to her.

“You made it. Seven hells, you are stupid, going in there alone.” His voice didn’t give away the stress and anxiety he still had, instead sounding almost playful.

“… Jon never should have trusted Daenerys.” Arya croaked, voice small, her hand rising up to touch her forehead, the edge of the wound.

“… He shouldn’t. Jon told me to fetch him as soon as you woke up, though, so…” Gendry was standing to stand up – he and Arya had left things weird and now he saw she was alive and he wasn’t fond of the thought of staying long enough to Arya remind him she didn’t want him.

“Gendry, wait.“ Arya’s voice was just a breath, but it still made Gendry freeze mid-movement. “I’m sorry.”

It caught Gendry of guard; Arya Stark was apologizing to him? As he didn’t answer, Arya continued.

“About what I said in Winterfell. I’m sorry I couldn’ t tell you I love you,” the words made Gendry’s heart almost burst, the words succumbing the cold ice in his veins that had been there ever since he had realized Arya might not make it being flushed away with warmth, that made his very core feel a bit lighter. “… I was sure I’d die. You deserve better than to use your years grieving. And… I couldn’t let myself love you either when I could lose you in just a few days.”

Gendry’s mouth felt dry, as he nodded slowly – he understood what Arya was trying to tell him. Arya wasn’t finished yet, no – it reminded him of her endless blabbing when she was still on the road with him.

“And --- And I am no lady. I will never be a lady with a pretty gown and my only purpose being carrying a lord’s babies in my belly. I can’t do that. Even for you.”

“That’s not the lady I want, Arya.” Gendry finally found his voice, interrupting Arya, whose grey eyes were examining his blue irises, confused and still apologetic. “They made me a lord. I thought I … Finally was worth your hand. Lords marry ladies. I didn’t want to marry a lady who is no more than a accessory on my hand, but you. I wanted _you_ , because finally I was lord, not some bastard just chasing after a highborn girl who could get married to any lord she deemed fit.” Gendry didn¨t dare to say whose father deemed fit, even if it was the truth.

There was a long silence after that. Gendry was sure the others in the tent were listening, too.

Gendry’s thought process was cut short as he felt Arya’s left hand on his cheek. His eyes found her’s, and for the first time ever since the proposal, right before rejection, he saw hope and true happiness.

“Then ask me again. Tell me what you want, and ask me.” Arya told Gendry, her raspy voice now gentler – Gendry could have sworn her eyes were staring to wet.

Gendry tried to remember back to his first proposal, what he had said – and realized he had to change one thing. So as he got on his knees, his eyes on the same level as Arya’s who was still sitting down, he started talking. He took her left hand from his cheek and held it with both of his hands, gentle and warm.

“Arya, you are the strongest, the most beautiful and brilliant person I have ever met. I love you, I have loved you for years and there is nothing I want more than you, as the person you are now. So please, let me be a part of your family. Let me marry you.” Gendry felt out of breath, his heart thrumming in his ears, singing. Now Gendry was sure she saw Arya’s eyes were tearing up, and then he saw her nod twice, a smile forming on her lips.

Gendry wanted to kiss her, but he knew she was hurt, so he leaned closer to her, smiling wider than he had ever smiled before and gently lifted his hand to touch her cheekbone, holding her close.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered almost against her skin, his breathing shaky – he couldn’t believe Arya had just agreed, that he was marrying this girl he had loved for so very long. He never got an answer, but didn’t need it as Arya leaned over and kissed her with all her might, tasting like love and survival and all the years they had shared and all the years yet to come.


End file.
